Pinocchio Dreams
by Kalida
Summary: Dexter has always felt like Pinocchio. A little wooden toy wanting to be a real boy. But he never could. He has these moments when he wins and everything is golden and glorious. But then it crashes and he's left to pick up the pieces on his own. He is strangled in the strings of fate. It's all Pinocchio dreams. But maybe he just hasn't realised that it has already come true.


**Author's Note: **This is for my fabulous sister Vindi. I am piss poor and can't afford to buy you any gifts, so I gift to you the only thing I can – my words.

I love you. You are the best sister one could ever ask for. And my best friend. Happy Birthday.

:)

PS: I know this fic isn't that good, but I had only 4 hours to give you your birthday present.

So, be nice.

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To readers: Thank you giving this fic a try. By the way, I had been busy with my University exams. But now I am free and I would be soon completing my other Dex/Deb fic – "Fingerprints in the Dark". Expect updates for "Droplets of Blood" too. And I know I am terribly poor in replying to review but I was just so busy. I would be correcting all that very soon.

Thanks again for being patient and taking the time to read my story. If possible, leave a review. It will make my day.

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**Title:** Pinocchio's Dream

**Rating:** T (slightly leaning towards M due to Debra's language.)

**Warning:** Foul language, mentions of violence.

**Author: **Kalida

**Pairing:** Dexter/Debra, Friendship & Family.

(Maybe platonic love. Can be considered slightly incestuous if you are looking for it and squinting really hard).

**Spoilers:** upto Season 6.

**Plot:** What would have happened if Debra didn't consult a psychologist and figured things out on her own? And Dexter stayed and talked to his sister instead of chasing after DD Killers?

**Summary: **Dexter has always felt like Pinocchio. A little wooden toy wanting to be a real boy. But he never could. He has these moments when he wins and everything is golden and glorious. But then it crashes and he's left to pick up the pieces on his own.

He is strangled in the strings of fate. It's all Pinocchio dreams.

But maybe he just hasn't realised that it has already come true.

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* * *

**.**

**Pinocchio Dreams**

**.**

* * *

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She looks down at the card in her hand. _Dr. Michelle Ross_. Does she need a therapist? A shrink? She maybe a mess, but she is not a nutcase. She crumples the card in her hands and throws it into the dustbin in a perfect arch.

She is a Lieutenant and she had bigger things to worry about than her mental state.

.

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* * *

It happens only at certain moments. On very few occasions.

Most days he feels in control. He feels like a Demi-God, looking over at the _puny_ humans and deciding who gets to live and who doesn't. He decides who should be lied to and who gets the truth. Hell, he even derails an ongoing investigation by tampering with the evidence.

The quiet thrill that comes with hiding in plain sight – it sets him alive (or at least as alive as he can be). Of course, the reason why he works with the Miami Metro Police Department _can_ be the easy access to killers. It _can_ be the fact that he'd be one of the first to know if ever he was being investigated. Or it can be because he _likes_ blood. Or it can be because his sister is dead set on being a cop, and he wants to keep an eye on her. Or it can be because he gets easy access to tranquilisers and evidence. Or it can be because he would get an opportunity to admire or criticise the work of his contemporaries and learn from their mistakes.

It can be any of those reasons...

Or, it can be because he _likes_ to be amidst them. He likes that camouflage.

He _likes _to be with people who are hunting down various unchecked versions of him.

He likes that thrill, that sense of danger... To be the wolf in sheep's clothing. He likes to be quiet and accommodating so that when he _does_ plunge that knife into the chest of some (deserving) victim, he can be violent and demanding. All these detectives look at him but they never _look_ at him. He likes knowing that his camouflage is working. He likes it. Maybe he even craves it.

In those moments, he feels great.

When looking at a mutilated corpse in a crime scene, when looking at _any_ blood work, when finding that tangible connection with his blood-brother, when somebody makes an offhand comment about Doakes being the Bay Harbour Butcher, when he has got a clue about a case while the rest of the detectives are running around like circus clowns trying to get a lead, when he sees the lights go out in somebody's eyes as he takes another life, and another life, and another... when he says something to boost Deb's confidence, when his son laughs...

In those moments he feels great. He feels victorious and on top of the world. He feels like he can do this for the rest of his life and never get caught. In those moments, he feels that he can beat the odds. He feels _powerful_. He feels _in control_. He feels like a fat King waiting and ruling his lands. He feels like he is God...

In those moments, he is impenetrable.

He feels _good._

.

.

But then the moment crashes.

.

.

And he is left with a whole different set of moments. Moments when he feels wrong, moments when he feels like a monster, nothing but a monster... Moments when he feels like he failed the Dark Passenger. Moments when something goes awry and his whole plan crashes. Moments when he has not killed for a week. Angry, and restless and bored and craving... Craving for things he shouldn't crave for – understanding, companionship and maybe even love...

Moments when he is not able to define who he is. _Blood splatter analyst, widower, brother, father, serial killer... and?_

Moments when he cannot figure out whether he is just a personification of The Code...

Or whether he is just the Dark Passenger wearing the skin of someone named Dexter, like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Moments when he hears Harry's voice in his head and it doesn't soothe him. Instead it aggravates him – this stark proof of how he is not normal. _Normal people don't talk to dead people, son._ Moments when he wonders what would have happened if Harry never found him. What if he and Brian had been in that container with three-inch deep blood and their Mom's severed body parts forever? Moments when he thinks that _that _would have been a better alternative. Moments like the one when he learns that Harry killed himself once he saw what he made of him. Moments when he thinks he is like his sister, forever yearning to appease the insatiable ghost of Harry. It's all Pinocchio Dreams, anyway.

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* * *

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As he stands over the naked body of his sister, he feels great. He feels powerful. _In control_. He feels invincible.

And he can't help but wonder how _beautiful_ The Ritual is. He could never find the beauty in early morning sunrise or fresh dew slipping off leaves that the so-called poets gushed about.

He could only find beauty in fat creamy full-moon or in a dark night which is _the night_ or in the effort and details in the preparation of kill room or in the feel of life draining out of a killer under his hands or the sight of some body wrapped in layers of Saran-wrap and also in adding another trophy to his collection of blood slides... He could find beauty only in The Ritual.

As he looks at his blood brother and his offering to him – his foster sister gift-wrapped in his style, bound by _his_ ritual – he sees the understanding in Brian's eyes, the _**utter**__ acceptance_. And he feels power gushing through his veins, searing through his body and sticking to and corroding the walls of his arteries.

.

.

But, then like every other such moment, it crashes down.

Reality comes barging in.

_The Code. Harry. Innocent kill. Debra!_ And he realises, he _can't _kill his sister.

He **can't**.

It is a _diktat _that is ingrained in his muscles, suffused into his blood, annealed into the very core of him.

As he grew up, Harry's Code was his Bible and Harry was his God. The first rule was, of course, _Do not get caught._

But then again some commands are not said but just thrust upon one's sense of identity.

As much as Harry feared Dexter will forego the Code and become a mindless killer, he loved his biological daughter. And he remedied all of the time he ignored her and trained his adopted son to become a personal vendetta machine by doing one simple thing – he ingrained it into the soul of Dexter that _he will not kill his sister_. Even if he turned into generic psycho-killer who kills for fun, he will not kill his sister. He must not. He cannot. He will not.

And maybe that is why it suddenly strikes him – Of course, he will not kill an innocent person, but more importantly, he _will not_ kill _his sister!_

'_I can't. Not Deb.'_

'_You can't be a killer and a hero. It doesn't work that way.'_

Like a petulant child, he wants to ask "Why not?" Why can't he be a killer and a hero? Why can't he get that acceptance and love from his blood brother yet let Debra live?

.

And as he crumples in the corner of an icy room, watching Brian's blood slowly ooze out of his neck, he understands why.

Because it never works that way.

Because this is reality and not a fairy tale.

The wooden toy doesn't get a play-mate who loves him at the end of the story...

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* * *

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He watches her smile. A carefree, truly happy, satisfied smile. The joy resonating through her as if something had been finally set free. Her hair was fluttering slightly in the wind and watching her he can't help but feel this is _**right**_. This is _enough_. Maybe the adrenaline-rush of being almost caught by his sister or being on _The Slice of Life_ after killing and dumping someone is making him feel so... euphoric. But watching Lumen against the backdrop of Miami night-sky he thinks that she looks _angelic_. Something _pure _yet his. The idea is so confounding that he still quite doesn't believe it. But she is here, in front of him. A dark angel of is his own. A partner. A lover. Someone to whose eyes he is not a monster or killer but a hero.

He feels content and maybe even happy.

And he thinks that it is one of those moments. Maybe not quite. It isn't quite that thrill or power or feeling like a fat king ruling over his lands. But it is something else that makes him feel equally important. A moment where he feels that he _exists_. Not just as a camouflage or a shell or a vigilante killer at night. But _he_ exists. Dexter exists. _Father, brother, lover, serial killer, Dexter... He _exists.

He decides that it _is _one of those moments where he feels invincible and he has hope that this moment wouldn't crash.

.

.

But it _does _crash.

He doesn't see it until he is staring at his own twisted reflection in a green plate. Grotesque like a monster. And it hits him, he is one. In her eyes. Now.

He throws the plate against the counter and it shatters.

And somehow he thinks that it is just.

Monsters need to be shattered.

But he feels that his world is folding in on itself, collapsing like a house of cards, a sense of vertigo knocking him off his balance and so he sits down. He crumples to the corner and drags his knees to his chest, one hand still frantically gripping the counter as if it is his last hold onto sanity.

He thinks about how he was such a fool. To not just desire but actually believe that someone would be his partner – in crime and life. How inconceivably naive he was to believe that someone would see him not just for his camouflage or his sins or his crimes but also for his family and... _who_ he is, not _what _he is. After Brian, Lila, Miguel Prado...

He still can't believe that he thought he would be exonerated in Lumen's eyes. A partner, a lover, someone who understood.

It **_never _**happens.

Moments of glory always, _always _does crash.

He thinks of her darkness and how it was freed yesterday night. He saw it and thought it to be beautiful. Thought it would be his. He never realised, she loved him because she had her own darkness and saw it reflected in his eyes. And now that it is freed, she is _incapable_ to love him.

He can't really think. His brain is a jumble of chemicals. _Sheer contentment for that perfect moment in the boat, residual thrill from when he almost got caught by his sister, the feeling of Dark Passenger satiated, the happiness of planning Harrison's party, the guilt for having killed Stan Liddy (and nearly framing Quinn in the process), confusion as to why his sister let them go, the feeling of numbness from the shock of Lumen leaving, but mostly, mostly, something akin to heartbreak as he finally saw himself for what he is in a green ceramic plate._

'_Don't be sorry. Your darkness... I'll carry it with me.'_

.

Later at the birthday party as he sees LaGuerta and Batista, and Deb and Quinn, and Masuka and his (possibly paid) date, he thinks about connections. Connections and knifes and revenge and darkness.

He thinks that maybe he just needs to find someone with darkness akin to his reflected in their eyes. It doesn't even have to be the same darkness, the need to kill... no, just a perpetual darkness hidden in their eyes and _maybe _he can also connect.

'_But then again, wishes are for children.'_

.

This time he doesn't ask why.

Or why not.

He simply accepts.

He isn't confounded by the near-abandonment of Lumen. He isn't even really surprised that she has just managed to forget all their hard work or kills together.

He thinks that darkness that binds them is gone. It fluttered into the Miami night sky by the winds, as he looked on mesmerised and hopeful.

Because it never works that way.

Because this is reality and not a fairy tale.

Because Harry was right.

The wooden toy doesn't become a real boy at the end of the story...

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* * *

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It is a quiet night. It could have been _the night_, but something in him told that he should be with his sister for now. For the greater good, longer run, he has to forego the opportunity of catching the DDK killers tonight.

And though it is an unfair barter system, Dexter is already acquainted with unfairness, and so spends the night talking to his sister. She needs him tonight, maybe even more than he needs his kill tonight.

Miami night is quiet except for the rare peal of thunder as lightning forks the sky.

Debra looks volatile as she takes another chug from her bottle of beer. Harrison is asleep and at least he doesn't have to worry about her swearing now.

She leans back on the couch, takes another sip, licks her lips and says, "Fuck."

And it is not just a word or a sentence; it is a declaration in itself. But it so Debra-ish that he feels a little bit of relief. And then he wonders why he feels so. He is Dexter the Dark, he shouldn't be feeling relief because his sister talks the way she always used to talk. He shouldn't be feeling anything at all really...

"The fucker killed his own sister." She snorts and takes another sip.

Dexter doesn't flinch. He gives himself mental points for that.

"Fuck." She says again.

Maybe he should respond, "Deb-"

"How could he do that?" She asks, never minding his response. "How-how... I just don't get how anyone could do that..."

He nods in compliance.

"His fucking sister!" Debra exclaims in anguish. "If you were a serial killer, would you kill me and then parade my goddamn fucking half naked corpse?-"

_No, I wouldn't... At least not the half-naked parading anyway._ Before he could answer, she continues.

"-That _sick _fuck!" She hisses. "The only good thing that came out of it is that we finally know the accomplice – Travis Marshall." Another sip. " Shit."

He wisely remains silent. They share a few moments in silence. But then he sees the anger in her face slowly ebb away, only to be replaced by something else. _Pain? Confusion?_

"They seemed close, you know." She speaks after a few moments, her voice low, almost revering.

And he suddenly looks at her and starts paying attention. This is not just a normal ranting... not just a taking-out-your-frustration-at-work thing... This seemed more _sacred_.

"They seemed close." She repeats, biting her bottom lips. She lets out a sound – half-sigh and half-laugh, a sign of self-depreciation. "And I knew –" She exhales and stops talking abruptly.

So he prompts her, "Knew what?"

She turns her head to look at him straight in the eyes and says, "I knew that-that something was wrong." She breathes in. "I didn't know _what_. I didn't know that he was the fucking DDK or anything, but I _felt_ that something was wrong."

She turns her head back to stare at the opposite all and lets out a laugh of exasperation. "His sister loved him. I could see that." She snorts and takes another sip. "_Anyone_ could see that. But... uh, but I could see that his sister _knew_."

This is a weird territory; one he doesn't know how to traverse. So he asks cautiously, "So... You think that the sister knew that Travis Marshall was one of the DDK and lied purposefully to you?"

"No. I-I don't think she lied." She slowly starts peeling the label off the beer bottle. "But I think that she _knew _something was wrong. She just didn't want to see. There was... There was something in her eyes that gave it away. Something familiar... It almost looked like..."

He prompts after a few seconds, "Looked like what?"

_Looked like me... Like I was talking to a reflection._ She blinks and shakes her head, "Nothing. It's nothing." She smiles.

"Thanks, Dex." She looks at him fondly. "I know that you wanted to do whatever fuck it is you wanted to do. But, I just... had a rough day. Thanks for talking to me. I really appreciate it." She smiles and bumps her shoulder with his.

Another tick mark against one of the various roles he has to play. _Good brother, tick._

He smirks, "Anytime." He doesn't mean it though.

Surely enough she laughs, "You don't mean that, asshole."

It astonishes him for a second, how easily his sister reads him and his lies... He is infinitely grateful that his sister is somehow blind to his biggest lie – his whole life.

She is still grinning widely as she says, "It is okay. I get it. You just wanna be alone. You've always been weird that way."

He looks at her grin and wonders... How easily she smiles and laughs, a simple conversation is enough to make her happy. He wonders how she doesn't have to kill anyone to be satisfied. She doesn't feel that itch, that nagging sensation. How is it possible? How can someone smile so easily?

And then he realises that he is smiling too. Albeit a fake smile, but he didn't know he was doing it. _Can one fake a smile without knowing it?_

Her smile reduces as she says, "Dex, I just want you to know that... you can talk to me too, you know. About stuff. I'd be here. I'd fucking _listen_. You don't have to run off to Nebraska every time you want to talk about... er, stuff."

So that was what this was about. He sighs, "Deb, I-"

What was he supposed to say? _Deb, I didn't go to Nebraska to talk about things but rather kill a new emerging serial killer. But I __**did**__ enjoy the trip with my dearly departed blood brother transforming it into an impromptu rumspringa. But, then I realised that Jonah wasn't a serial killer and that I was better off here._

"It-it wasn't like that." He answers meagrely.

"Then what was it like?" She asks, irritated.

It is really hard to have a heart-to-heart with your sister when you are meandering through a maze of carefully constructed lies. "I just-" He runs a hand wearily across his face. It is always harder to lie when somebody is looking at you directly in the face.

"I just wanted to escape it for a while." He blurts out. And then he realises how true it is. He hadn't known it till he had said it, but it _was_ true. He wanted to escape the double life. He wanted to escape the masks... all of them. He wanted to escape the niceties, the courtesy, the constant requirement to be a good father, good brother, good friend, good blood splatter analyst, good everything!

He wanted to be himself... just himself, with no one to judge him and no one to put on a mask for. No need to find the light within himself. He could be anyone with no one watching. He could be his unchecked version. He could be Brian... _Biney_...

Turns out, he couldn't. Even with no one watching, he couldn't kill an innocent man. He couldn't be his brother.

He hears his brother's voice reverberate in his head. _"This is like Debra all over again!"_

.

His thoughts are abruptly severed by his Deb's voice asking incredulously, "Escape what?"

He feels like he had this conversation with her years ago.

'_Trapped by what? Three kids? A wife, who adores you?'_

He stares at the floor as he shakes his head, "You don't understand."

She crosses her arms. "Then make me understand."

He exhales. And then inhales slowly. "There are... moments. Moments when everything falls into place and... and I... win. Moments when" _when I kill someone and the light in their eyes go out, when I know something that the cops don't_ "when... when Harrison says his first word or... when you make Lieutenant or when I finish a blood report or..." He lets out a breath he wasn't holding. "I feel _good_ then. But... it, uh... it crashes. And then there are a whole different set of moments." _Like when I kill my blood brother, when Lumen leaves, when Trinity kills my wife _"Moments like uh... _**Rita**_ or when Harrison is sick or when somebody like Brother Sam dies or..." He has to be careful about what he says. "uh... when Trinity kills again. And then- then, I want to escape. I just want to _go_." Go somewhere where nothing bothers him.

"Dex..."

It is inadequate. He knows that. He hasn't expressed himself sufficiently. "I want you to know that Nebraska wasn't about you."

"Dex." Debra looks at him, his eyes. "I understand."

_No she doesn't. _"No, you don't." Did he just say that aloud?

"I don't?" She questions, pointing a finger to herself. "I don't?"

"I-" He wants to explain. He wants to explain how she cannot understand... why she cannot understand. Not for her lack of empathy, no. But because she has never been imperfect. She has never been incomplete. She has never been a wooden toy pretending to be something human, pretending to be _real_. She can't understand...

"Fuck Dex." She is angry, a disbelieving look clouding her eyes. "You always have this thing. Like you believe that everyone except you is a fucking cardboard cut-out or something. Like we are not real–"

"No. Deb, I–" He wants to tell her how she got it backwards. _He_ is the cardboard cut-out. _He _is the one who is not real. That is why they cannot understand...

"Well, guess what Dex? We are real people too. We have feelings and emotions and... and despair and moral compunctions too. And yes, it is fucking great that you listen to me ranting about my shitty day and help me get my shit together or whatever but I wish... I just fucking wish that you'd do the same."

She is leaning forward and her are as big as they can be, imploring him to do something.

"Have you ever thought that maybe I could help you too? Maybe if you'd ever want to hash out all the crap in your fucking life, I'd be there?"

She appears so upset that he tries for levity. He smiles, "I don't have that much shit in my life."

She peers at him incredulously. "Rita died, Dexter." She declares staring into his eyes. "Your wife was killed by the hands of a serial killer and he left Harrison in a pool of blood. And now that motherfucker maybe out there killing more innocent people. And you're okay with that?"

He sighs. Debra always asks questions with no correct answer. It isn't fair. He licks his lips. "That is not what I meant."

She leaps up from the couch and lets out a sceptical snort. "You know what? I don't have time for this shit. I am gonna go and you can get back to doing whatever fucktard thing you wanted to do in the first place." She walks over to the door.

Dexter catches her wrist and turns her around. "Wait-"

She smiles and it is so full of venom that he briefly contemplates letting her go. "Let me go. _I don't understand,_remember?"

He snaps. "It is not that you_ don't_ understand. It's that you _can't_. You _can't_ understand."

She isn't... doesn't know how it feels to have everything in one moment and nothing in the next. She doesn't know of glory. She doesn't know how one moment you can be a King, a God, and a real boy and become a wooden toy the next.

She _can't _understand...

"How do you think I felt?" She asks. There are tears glistening in her eyes and she licks her bottom lip. He can feel her pulse racing beneath his thumb. He just holds her wrists tighter. "I know _exactly_ how you feel. I've been living it my whole motherfucking life! Fuck." She breathes; her mouth open and a familiar darkness creeping into her eyes.

"I've been living my entire life trying to be as good as you and... failing. How do you think that felt? Or how about this: you meet a person and you like him and you have this goddamn amazing sex and you fall in love with him and he falls in love with you and he is smart, sexy, handsome, kind and romantic and he gets along with your weird family. And he fucking proposes! And it is like you finally got your fucking happy ending with a fuckload of rainbows and unicorns and all that shit. And you feel that you finally did something right. All those screw-ups and mistakes doesn't matter cause you finally did something right. And you are all glowy and happy and everything is damn perfect and this is the best moment of your life. And then... and then he drugs you and ties you up and puts you on a table wrapped up in plastic so that he can kill you. Slice you up into nice little bloodless pieces. You are a cop and the person you thought you'll love forever turned out to be the fucking serial killer you were investigating. And everything crashes. Every single thing you thought that you knew about yourself or you knew about the world crashes. Like frigging dominoes. And you are nothing in that moment..."

He finds that weirdly his mouth his dry and nothing gets past his throat. He knows that he should comfort his sister, but somehow he is frozen.

She is flushed and wild. Her words are still an angry tirade when she asks "Is that how you felt, Dex?" She laughs weakly. "Oh, let's not forget Lundy. One day I have Anton _and _Lundy and the next day I've got nobody. I cheat on my boyfriend with a guy who is old enough to be my dad. But I loved him. I really fucking did love him. And I got him shot."

"Deb, it wasn't your fault." He says automatically, and is surprised that his throat can work.

"I got him shot. And I got shot myself and when I wake up he's dead. Lundy just... died. One moment I had the love of two men and I fuck it up and the next I have none. Is that somewhat close to what you felt? This mindfuck? This horrible _horrible _feeling of setting everything you touch to fire? And I want to just close my eyes and fucking pretend that it's not there. It's not true. I want to turn back time. I want to runaway. But I can't and so I-" She pauses and takes a deep breath rubbing the heel of her palms into her eyes. It makes her look awfully young. She huffs out another breath. "Shit."

There is still colour on her face and her lips are set to a thin line. But it seems that all the anger and righteous fury has drained out of her, leaving only resignation in its wake. Her shoulders are slumped and she takes another breath. She looks a little too unbalanced that Dexter suggests, "Maybe you should sit down."

She grins, ruefully. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." And proceeds to do so. Dexter sits down next to her.

"I didn't know." He says. And that is all he can say. It is not sufficient, it is not adequate. But somehow it is enough... for her.

She gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I have these moments too, you know." But this time her words are not an angry rush. It is a confession.

"After Rudy, Lundy... When I made Lieutenant I was so fucking happy. Dad would have been proud. And then I think of Quinn's proposal and how I turned him down and... He is such a mess afterwards and frankly, I-I don't feel _that_ bad. I mean I've been fucking living with that guy. It was serious. I should feel heartbroken. But I don't. And... and it is like there is something missing... inside of me. I wonder how anyone can feel so _full_ one second and _empty _the next. Like when I get a new house and it is cheap but fucking beautiful and everything is fucking amazing. But then Quinn saunters in drunk out of his fucking mind. And he's being a douche. A complete asshole. It's a mess. Everything is a fucking mess and I call you and you don't pick up. I get your voicemail and I can't help thinking that you're a bigger douche than Quinn. And then I learn that you went to fucking Nebraska and I wonder how it got so messed up. It is such a fucking mess. All the good moments crash and... and I don't know what to do except-" She stops mid rant, and stares at the opposite wall looking a little astonished. She exclaims, "Huh."

He waits a few seconds and when no answer is forthcoming, he prompts her. "Except what?"

She stares at him and there is a new light in her eyes. Or a new darkness, depending on the way you look at it. She licks her lip and leans back against the couch, tipping her head backwards. He imitates her. There is something soothing about looking at the ceiling.

She holds his palm which was resting on the couch between them and gives it a little squeeze.

Rolling her head towards him, she answers, "I don't know what to do except... except come to you."

He tears his gaze from the ceiling and looks at her baffled. She holds his gaze and continues, "Whenever I want to escape those moments, _you _are what I escape to, Dexter."

He takes a breath wanting to say something, but doesn't know what to say.

So, they just sit there side by side, heads bent at awkward angles and gazing at each other. They sit in silence, their breaths slowly becoming synchronised, her hand clasping his, her warmth suffusing into him.

Outside the Miami sky rains; a reverent sort of drizzle. Inside they just sit, next to each other. No agenda, no motive.

The lowered tone of her voice making everything sound sacred. Even her expletives. She whispers as if she was trading secrets like when they were teenagers and he listens. He feels that maybe this is _the_ first time he listens and _understands_.

Her lips are barely moving. She murmurs in a hushed tone. "I come to you, Dex. You are my fucking rock. I am so dependent on you that it's not even funny. After Rudy... Brian whatever. After Lundy... I am this psychologically fucked up, no-good bum who is a permanent fixture in your home. Every time, I crash. Every single fucking time I get that momentary high, that feeling of ruling the world only to see it crumble into nothing, I come to you. You are the only one I can depend on, jackass. Whenever I feel like my head is going to explode or... or whenever I feel wrong or weak, I come to you. I count on you. Every time my world spins out of control I have got you to grab on to."

He can barely breathe because he finally understands. He sees the darkness in her eyes. He always mistook it for light. But it is a darkness. Not his kind of darkness, no. Not bloodlust. Not the need to kill. But still darkness, something permanent. Something that is inherently her that he can't believe that he missed it. It is as much a part of her as Dark Passenger is a part of him. It is as inescapable. And he things of darkness and blood and things that bind. And he feels hope...

She is still speaking in whispers and that is somehow more powerful than screaming her throat out. The words are rolling out her mouth and he listens as if it is a siren song.

"Dammit Dex! I want to be the same for you. Every moment your life crashes and you feel lost, I wish you would fucking come to _me_. I want you to know that you can depend on me. I maybe your no-good sister but I do care about you. More than anybody else in this whole fucking world. I want you to know that. I want to be what you are to me."

He breathes, "_**You already are**_."

His palm feels sweaty under the warmth of Debra's hand. It is almost inexplicably hot. He smiles and squeezes her hand back.

He once again feels like a King. A God. But there is no rush to it. No adrenaline. No crescendo. Rather it is a quiet contentment. A type of peace that invades and pervades through his mind.

In this moment, he is impenetrable. He feels _good._

He hopes that _**this**__ moment _doesn't end...

.

.

_**It doesn't.**_

.

.

* * *

He doesn't ask why.

He doesn't have an answer anyway.

In the end, the wooden toy doesn't become a real boy.

Instead, he finds another wooden puppet. Somebody already strangled by the strings of fate and forever fading into the background.

.

In the end, he finds another puppet and holds her hands.

Turns out that was enough.

.

* * *

.

**END.**

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End file.
